


Electric Ladyland and Me

by maaaaa



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-08
Updated: 2020-04-08
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:47:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,894
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23538613
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maaaaa/pseuds/maaaaa
Summary: Written for the Sentinel Thursday prompt “Rolling Stone Top 100 Albums”. Originally posted on October 16, 2006 at Sentinel Thursday.
Comments: 3
Kudos: 10





	Electric Ladyland and Me

Haight-Ashbury  
November 1968

Naomi Sandburg ambled along the street headed toward the bus station. Her chestnut hair, sun-streaked with flecks of red and gold, hung past her waist. A beaded leather headband across her forehead, tied in back along the crown of her head, did nothing to keep it from swirling about her face and torso. She wore a gauzy peasant blouse which hung loose over ratty tattered jeans and was cinched at the waist by a frayed macrame’d belt. Several beaded necklaces were draped around her neck, as well as one silver chain from which a peace symbol dangled. An oversized woven pouch was strapped crosswise over one shoulder, and rested on her left hip. A well-worn canvas backpack straddled her back. She carried all her worldly goods in the two satchels, but her most precious possession was nestled, new and mysterious, within her womb. She looked much the same as the thousands of other hippies that thronged the area during the Summer of Love and remained longer, seduced by the drug scene and lulled by the promises of the counterculture. And yet, she was as unique as each of them.

A cold, stiff wind whipped in from the Bay and Naomi ducked into one of the numerous head shops lining the street to escape it. The place was warm and dimly lit. It smelled pleasantly of sage, incense, pot and hashish. A smoky gray haze hung in the air and drifted aimlessly throughout the room. Black light flickered along one wall at the back, illuminating psychedelic posters. She wandered up and down the narrow aisles, stopping here and there to page through a book or look at a wall hanging. When she reached the record bins, one album caught her eye. It was set on top of one of the racks, showcased as a recent arrival. Naomi picked it up and ran her fingers across the cover art. Her eyes misted over and the image of the young man on the album blurred.

“Anything I can help ya with pretty mama?” asked a friendly, mellow voice.

Naomi looked up and saw a young man with long blond hair, a scraggly beard, wire-rimmed glasses, and a string of love beads around his neck smiling at her from behind a counter.

“No, thanks, it’s groovy,” she answered warmly, wiping the corner of one eye with the back of her hand. “I’m just looking. Needed to get in out of the cold for a bit.”

She looked down at her sandal covered feet. His gaze followed hers and they both laughed as she wiggled her toes to emphasize the remark.

“I hear ya,” he nodded genially. “I can dig it. You ever hear him play live?” He tilted his head toward the album in her hand.

“Yes, I have,” Naomi answered. “Actually, I’ve met him,” she added with a shy smile and a warm blush. She covered her belly with the flat of one hand. “I was in the studio for a few of the sessions.” She held up the album and smiled a huge, disarming smile.

“Far out!” the young man exclaimed. “Then you gotta get one, right?”

“Oh, um, yeah, that’d be nice, but I’m a little short of bread,” Naomi replied. “I’m tripping out today. Going to a commune in Colorado for a while.”

“That’s groovy, that’s groovy,” the guy agreed. “Whoa, how about a trade? Can you dig that?”

Naomi looked at him uncertainly and started backing away.

The guy’s eyes bugged and he held up his hands. “Oh, shit, no, shit, hang on, I didn’t mean that,” he stammered. He pointed to Naomi’s neck. “I was thinking that necklace, the one with the radical peace symbol, for the album. Whaddya think?”

Naomi’s hand strayed to the necklace. The pendant was pretty much a run of the mill peace sign, an inverted Y, but where the continuation of the stem of the Y would normally be, there was a Star of David.

“I’ve never seen one like that, man, it’s far out,” he said appreciatively.

Naomi thought about it for a minute and then slipped the necklace over her head and handed it over. She slid the album into the pouch on her hip and turned to leave.

“Peace!” the young man called out as she reached the door.

Naomi turned back and saw him bouncing in place, his hand in the air flipping her the peace sign.

“Peace,” she replied, and returned the gesture. She ventured back out into the cold, crisp November air and resumed the next leg of her journey through life.

~*~*~*~

Cascade, Washington  
1976

Jimmy Ellison was lying on his bed, the door to his room closed. The music blaring from the record player on his desk filled the room. The songs weren’t really his style, they were way too sixties for his taste, but it was Hendrix, and Betsy Nelson had told him she thought Hendrix was cool and he should broaden his horizons. So, doing what any normal teenage boy wanting to impress the cutest cheerleader on the squad would do, Jimmy went out and found the album in one of the rock ‘n roll bins at the local music store. Plus he figured it should be one more thing good for pissing off his old man.

He was just beginning to get into the music, and was reconsidering his opinion of Hendrix, when Stevie burst into his room, banging on it as he entered.

“Sure, come on in, Squirt, thanks for knocking,” Jimmy said sarcastically.

Stevie screwed his face up and shot Jimmy a nasty look.

“The old man’s home,” he said breathlessly, ignoring Jimmy’s acerbic remark. “You might wanna turn that off.” He pointed at the turntable, helpfully pointing out the offensive object.

“I’m not done listening to it yet,” Jimmy retorted in a low voice, drowned out by the words of All Along the Watchtower.

“What?” Stevie yelled. “What’d you say Jimmy?”

“Get. Out.” Jimmy ordered. He punctuated the command by tossing his bed pillow at Stevie’s head.

At that moment, William Ellison appeared in Jimmy’s doorway, just behind Stevie.

“Just what the hell is going on?” he shouted over the music.

Jimmy jumped to a sitting position and jerked his head at Stevie, indicating his brother should take off.

Stevie took the hint, and scooted past William into the hallway.

“I’m listening to music, Pop,” Jimmy answered simply. “And goofing around with Stevie.”

William barged into the room and stalked to the desk. He ripped the needle off the record, raking it across the surface and leaving a crooked scratch in its wake. He picked up the album sleeve and waved it at Jimmy.

“How many times have I told you I don’t want this kind of crap in my house? Huh?” William demanded.

Jimmy stared at his father, defiantly silent.

“Answer me, young man,” William persisted.

Jimmy set his jaw and met his father’s gaze, but refused to answer.

William snatched the record off the turntable and smashed it against the side of the desk, breaking it into pieces. Then he tore the sleeve apart and stuffed it in the trashcan. He scowled at Jimmy and shook his head.

“I don’t know what’s gotten into you lately, Jimmy,” he barked, clearly exasperated.

“Jimi Hendrix is a legend, he---,” Jimmy began, determined to hold his ground.

“A legend?” William cut in. “Bull. He was nothing more than a screwed up druggie who threw his life away. You listen to me, ten years from now, hell, five years from now, no one will know who that hippie pothead was or that he ever existed. Believe me,” he stated vehemently before slamming the door on his way out, “he didn’t leave behind anything worthwhile.”

~*~*~*~

The Loft  
1996

“Sandburg,” Jim growled as he stopped in his tracks at the door to Blair’s room. “What part of we need to get organized and clean this place up don’t you understand?” He set his hands on his hips and took in the mess cluttering the room.

Blair was seated on the floor, back against the futon, surrounded by boxes and piles of stuff. “Huh?” he answered, looking up and over the rims of his glasses. “Oh, this,” he went on, immune to Ellison’s menacing glare. “Yeah, man, organizing, gotcha, I hear ya, man.”

Jim shook his head, wondering if he was really supposed to take the remarks as an answer.

“Oh, wow, would you look at this, man?” Blair whooped before Jim could ask for a time out and rewind. “I’ve been looking for this for months! Naomi woulda killed me if I’d lost this. Not killed me, killed me, metaphorically killed me, but still, I’m so psyched.”

Blair was holding a record album, lovingly caressing its dog-eared edges.

“You two wanna be alone?” Jim deadpanned with a quirked eyebrow.

“Very funny, man,” Blair snickered with a goofy grin. “Look, it’s Electric Ladyland, vintage Hendrix. She got it in Haight-Ashbury back in ’68 when it first came out. She wants me to hang onto it, says she’ll tell me why someday.”

“Yeah?” Jim questioned with genuine interest. “I had that album once.”

“You?” Blair asked. “Hendrix? Really? Right on,” he said with a body shimmy. “Far out, man,” he added with an affected strung out lilt.

Jim rolled his eyes and laughed. “I bought it because some girl I had a crush on was into Hendrix.” Jim moved closer and plucked the album from Blair.

“Hey,” Blair protested weakly as he unfolded himself from the floor.

“I never did get a chance to listen to the whole thing,” Jim said as he turned it over and read the song list.

“No way,” Blair responded in astonishment.

“Yeah, well, my ulterior motive in buying it was to piss off my old man. Worked like a charm. Dad smashed the record before I finished listening to it the first time,” Jim affirmed. He turned the album again and studied the cover for a moment.

“Yikes,” Blair grimaced. “Hey.” Blair nudged Jim and tapped his finger on the album. “Did you know the album cover originally had Jimi surrounded by naked women? Yup,” he hurried on, “full frontal nudity. It was banned in the States. Too bad, huh? I bet that woulda given dear old dad an aneurysm.”

Jim’s body shook with silent laughter and he shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I remember dad telling me he, Hendrix, had no legacy to leave behind.”

“Guess he was wrong, huh man?” Blair observed. He nudged Jim again, knocking them both out of the pensive mood. “Hey, let’s listen to it now,” he suggested hopefully, and not just because he wanted to get out of any more cleaning.

“Sure, Chief,” Jim agreed. “I’d like that. We can boogie while we clean.”

Blair groaned and traipsed into the living room behind Jim.

~*~*~*~

Greenwood Memorial Cemetery  
Seattle, Washington  
October 1st

Naomi knelt at the side of the grave and gently pushed a few smashed beer cans and some faded peace symbols to one side so she could view the nameplate. She wiped a tear from her cheek as she added a token of her own to the remembrances.

“I still haven’t told him,” she whispered into the stillness. “I never got the chance to tell you, how can I tell him?”


End file.
